POEMS


Pickled Herring

To think I could fool you in a suit while wearing a poorly manicured mustache; that was just another worn page torn from my book of delusions and bad dreams.  You, like I, today, would not believe your eyes, nor trust your instincts, nor read the hieroglyphics left by the Aboriginal cave dwellers to realize: decline is decline, deceit is deceit, and disease is disease.  I, like you, are neither soothsayer, nor seer, nor prophet, but Truth is infinitely inescapable while remaining just outside our grasp.  Why is our family tree wrought with rancid fruit, and our Eden infested by locust?  Were the Rabbinical burdens so great that our souls became overrun by salty tears diluting the purest of wellsprings?  But alas, from shtetls, and pogroms, and ovens we came triumphantly to the New World.  Please, won't you tell me: when did our Nile revert to a blood soaked waterway?